


Something to Hold Onto

by DrowningByDegrees



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Certainly not Geralt XD, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Is it a curse?, It's not actually really violent, M/M, Monster of the Week, Mystery, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, There's a lot of snuggling in this fic given the subject matter, Who Knows?, emotional compulsion, injury tending, is it monsters?, just a lot of very distressed people, really this fic is like a cat, violence and cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29768850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees
Summary: “Is it some kind of prank, do you think?” Jaskier asks, squinting at the noticeboard.It’s littered with contracts, each more peculiar than the last. Missing people, haunted houses, someone convinced his sister is possessed because she’s acting strangely. The last is vague, giving no indication of what “strangely” even means. It would be weird for a sizable city like Novigrad, but it’s completely nonsensical in a village as small as Hillcrest, which is barely large enough to support an inn. The notices are all quite new, so normally Geralt would be tempted to write it off as someone being a menace. But the writing is different, the paper is different,allof it is different enough that it’s probably not one person.As it turns out, there is no prank, leaving Geralt to try to fix things before whatever is wrong with Hillcrest consumes them all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 237
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	Something to Hold Onto

**Author's Note:**

> I had such a great time writing for [ Inennui's ](https://inennui.tumblr.com)incredible art and just in general. This might be the most fun bang collaboration I've ever done. 
> 
> A huge thank you also to [CousinCecily](rel=) for approximately all the things, from tossing around ideas to help me make a coherent plot out of this to pom pom waving during my last minute scramble to finish. I cannot say enough how much I appreciate it. <3

“Is it some kind of prank, do you think?” Jaskier asks, squinting at the noticeboard. 

It’s littered with contracts, each more peculiar than the last. Missing people, haunted houses, someone convinced his sister is possessed because she’s acting strangely. The last is vague, giving no indication of what “strangely” even means. It would be weird for a sizable city like Novigrad, but it’s completely nonsensical in a village as small as Hillcrest, which is barely large enough to support an inn. The notices are all quite new, so normally Geralt would be tempted to write it off as someone being a menace. But the writing is different, the paper is different, _all_ of it is different enough that it’s probably not one person.

“Hmm,” is all Geralt says, pulling a few of the notices that seem most likely to call for a witcher. He considers heading to the alderman’s home to ask after them, but it’s long since dark and Geralt generally finds people to be marginally less rude if he at least waits for daylight. 

They could go back to camp outside of town, but if there’s any real truth to these contracts, Geralt would rather not spend all night worrying over Jaskier’s safety ( _not_ that he worries about Jaskier’s safety, obviously). Roach would probably benefit from a roof over her head for a night anyway, so he wordlessly leads the way to the inn. 

The thing is, the inn is as odd as the noticeboard. It looks normal enough at first glance, just like any other run-down building in any other village on the continent. A fire burns merrily in the hearth at the far end of the room. Rough-hewn tables take up most of the floor space. A portly older man dries out a mug behind the bar. 

That’s where it stops making sense. This time of evening, the place ought to be full of villagers, laughing and drinking after a hard day’s work. He and Jaskier should barely attract any attention at all. But they walk through the door and all dozen or so patrons look their way. Not the open staring Geralt gets sometimes, but wary, furtive glances. 

It’s not that, though. At least it’s not _only_ that. The whole place reeks of human distress. It’s like they’re caught in the middle of a war, waiting for the enemy to arrive. 

“Need something?” The innkeeper scowls at them from behind the bar, as if they’re intruders rather than customers. 

Traveling with Jaskier can often be an exasperating experience. He talks incessantly. He complains about ridiculous things. He takes up so much space. Not physically, but with his very being. All that aside, Geralt thanks his lucky stars for the bard’s presence in moments like these. Jaskier sweeps in like he hasn’t even noticed the man’s standoffishness with a friendly greeting and a charming smile. The innkeeper doesn’t warm up to them exactly, but by the end of it, Jaskier has secured dinner, an overpriced room, and permission to play for a while. Perhaps things are looking up just a bit. 

\---

Or not. 

“Yeesh. For a village chock full of people with monster problems, you’d think we’d get a warmer reception,” Jaskier grumbles as he plops himself down on the bench beside Geralt. 

“You think so?” Geralt asks mildly, dipping a piece of bread in his tepid bowl of stew. 

“This is probably the best entertainment they’ve had in months. I played all the usual favorites. No one even cracked a smile, Geralt.” The witcher watches Jaskier steal one last glance around the room, an unfamiliar frown tugging at his mouth, before carefully stowing his lute away. 

“When you say best entertainment, you mean…” Geralt gestures vaguely at Jaskier, hiding a smile behind his mug of ale. 

And alright, maybe he does have the piece of bread crust Jaskier throws at his head coming to him. “You take that back.”

Jaskier’s theatrics have people glancing their way again, which is enough to make him quiet down, satisfying himself with kicking Geralt’s shin under the table. They eat in silence for a little while after that. It’s only once Jaskier has finished eating and been worrying at his bottom lip so long that Geralt is on the verge of demanding he just spit it out already that the bard adds anything further. “All I’m saying is that it’s weird.” 

Geralt finds he can’t really argue with that, so he leaves it be. Normally, Jaskier would play another set after dinner, but after how the first one went, Geralt isn’t really surprised that the bard isn’t keen on round two. He suspects Jaskier might have taken it a bit personally, because he doesn’t say much after that, just stares out at the tavern, looking entirely too serious. 

Comfort, in a verbal sense, has never played much part in their friendship. Geralt honestly doesn’t know what he’d say anyway. So, he doesn’t remind Jaskier that opinions of a handful of grouchy villagers don’t hold much weight, or that they’re _definitely_ not worth stressing over. Instead, he tries to help in more subtle ways. When Jaskier leans against his shoulder, Geralt tolerates it without complaint. When Jaskier brings his mug to his lips and finds it empty, Geralt buys the bard another drink. 

\---

By morning, the slight has been forgotten. Jaskier gets up with minimal whining. There’s no one downstairs this early but the surly innkeeper, so breakfast is a peaceful affair. As peaceful as anything can be when Jaskier is involved at any rate. 

Things are normal as they finish their meal. They’re pretty ordinary outside too. Villagers side eye him a bit as they so often do, but no one stops him or Jaskier as they approach the alderman’s house. The alderman answers after a few attempts at knocking and that, Geralt decides, is where normalcy dies an incredibly confusing death. 

“Witcher,” the old man says like it’s an accusation, like Geralt is a wolf trying to sneak in amongst sheep. Not the ideal reception, and not terribly common these days, but it does still happen. 

Geralt decides it’s probably best to get straight to the point. “I’m here about some of those notices.” 

“I didn’t put up any notices.” Already, the alderman is trying to close the door, stopped only by Geralt’s foot. His eyes go wide as he stares down at the witcher’s boot, voice pitching a little higher. “I have no need for a witcher. You may as well be on your way.” 

Refusing to let the alderman play stupid, Geralt holds out a request from a woman to find her missing husband. “Someone did.” 

“Look. One unfaithful husband runs off with another woman, and everyone starts crying about monsters. She’s just in denial.” The alderman seems to be cycling through various strategies to get rid of Geralt. Currently, it’s placating. “You know how people are.”

Geralt _does_ know how people are, which is precisely the problem. He knows that this is unusual. He knows something is off. He knows the alderman smells terrified, even half hidden behind the door. 

Mostly, he knows trying to get answers here is a lost cause. With a sigh, he withdraws his foot from the door, and before he can even finish saying goodbye, the door is slammed in his face in what he suspects is panic rather than anger. 

“Well, he was rude. Do you think he’s up to something?” Jaskier asks once they’re on the street again. He walks close to Geralt the way he does sometimes when he’s seemingly forgotten the concept of personal space. 

“I think he was afraid.” Geralt eyes their surroundings as he walks through the village, but it’s just the same as any other. 

“Of what? He was awfully quick to turn away help for an alderman with a noticeboard full of… notices.” Jaskier glances over his shoulder, a pensive scowl settling across his features. It doesn’t suit him. 

“That’s what I intend to find out.” The monster, if it exists, will have left evidence somewhere. Since the alderman isn’t going to give him anything useful, Geralt resigns himself to blindly searching the woods. Whoever put up the contracts will likely pay for them even if the alderman won’t, but Geralt doesn’t want to go hunting people down to make a deal until he has some idea what he’s getting into. 

Jaskier’s shoulder bumps against Geralt’s. “I’ll go with you.” 

“No,” Geralt retorts, walking a little faster. “You won’t.” 

The pace does nothing to dissuade Jaskier, who rushes to keep in step with Geralt. “Please? I’ll stay out of the way. I’ll be quiet. I swear.” 

This is definitely one of those times where Jaskier is thoroughly exasperating. The bard has secretly followed Geralt only to get himself in trouble too many times. Geralt knows ordering him won’t do any good, so he appeals to Jaskier’s attention span instead. “I’m just doing a sweep of the woods. I don’t even know if there’s a monster. It’s not going to make for much of a story.” 

“It’s not about the story.” This isn’t the tone Jaskier uses when he’s trying to wheedle his way into Geralt’s good graces. It’s… Geralt doesn’t recognize it, actually. 

Unsettled, Geralt nearly gives in. But the problem is, he really has no idea what he’s walking into. That Jaskier has been traveling with him for years, that he’s managed to follow Geralt into objectively terrifying situations and come out the other side, don’t matter. Neither of those things shake the bone-deep worry that he’s going to encounter something he can’t keep Jaskier safe from. “Then go back to the inn. There’s nothing out there that’s going to be worthwhile for you.” 

Jaskier’s hand settles at Geralt’s elbow. To stop him. To keep up maybe. “You don’t know that. You said yourself that you don’t know what this is.” 

All at once, Geralt turns on Jasker, snapping, “That. Is. My. _Point_. I can’t protect you from whatever is going on until I know what it is.”

Jaskier doesn’t startle, doesn’t so much as miss a beat. In the face of Geralt’s snarling, he smiles. “There is no safer place to be than at your side.” 

It’s probably just Jaskier’s usual theatrics. Probably. But it squeezes at something under Geralt’s ribcage. Geralt glowers at Jaskier and finds he can’t quite bring himself to turn the bard away again. Scrubbing a hand over his face, Geralt reluctantly concedes. “Quiet.”

“You’ll never even know I’m there,” Jaskier promises, immediately following when Geralt sets off for the edge of town. 

\---

To Jaskier’s credit, he actually _is_ far quieter than usual. Geralt had sort of expected him to start in on inane questions before they even reached the tree line, but every time the witcher glances over, Jaskier is staring intently out into the woods like he honestly believes Geralt could use a second pair of eyes. Or maybe it’s nerves. Geralt can hear the thump of Jaskier’s heartbeat, just a little quicker than it ought to be. 

Relative silence doesn’t do a damned bit of good in the end though. There’s not time to check everywhere, so it could be luck of the draw, but the woods north of the village are a complete bust. No werewolf lairs. No ghosts or ghouls. Nothing but a forest floor covered in old, dead leaves and a whole lot of trees. 

Jaskier does speak up once when they hear a noise overhead. More accurately, Jaskier shrieks and nearly jumps right out of his skin, his hands immediately seeking out Geralt’s arm, as if that would be a remotely helpful response to either of them in the face of danger. Geralt jerks his head in the direction of the sound, reaching to draw his sword, but there’s no danger to be found. There’s just the fluttering of wings as a large bird cuts through the canopy of tree branches. 

With said wings comes a loud, gravelly cawing overhead. Geralt gives Jaskier’s hands curled around his elbow an annoyed scowl. “Are you done?” 

“An act of self-preservation,” Jaskier protests, slowly withdrawing his hands from Geralt’s arm. It feels like a loss somehow. 

“Yeah,” Geralt sarcastically agrees. “When you’re in danger, it’s generally a great idea to hamper the movement of the person with the sword who is trying to keep you out of trouble.”

Sometimes, when he’s sharp with Jaskier, the bard’s scent goes bitter with something Geralt can’t quite place. There’s none of that this time though. Jaskier beams at the witcher like what Geralt said and what he heard aren’t even on the same continent. “Geralt. Were you worried about me?” 

And of course he was. Jaskier is marginally more capable of moving through the world without getting himself killed than he might have been a few years before, but he’s still kinda hopeless. And while Jaskier might be an endless annoyance, it doesn’t mean Geralt wants him dead. But breathing a word of that would only encourage Jaskier, so Geralt rolls his eyes instead. “There’s nothing out here. Come on.” 

\--- 

Again, they walk through the door of the inn to suspicious looks. Geralt has every intention of getting something to eat and retreating to their room. In retrospect, he supposes he should have guessed Jaskier would have none of that. Jaskier looks around the room like he’s expecting an ambush, his breathing is shallow and a touch too quick, but the bard marches up to their room with Geralt in tow only long enough to grab his lute. 

Geralt could stay. He knows that, and for a few minutes he does. It’s quieter up here, and escape from the palpable human distress that keeps crowding Geralt’s senses is a relief. But now that he’s noticed that something has Jaskier noticeably unsettled, Geralt can’t quite shake it. After a few minutes he hears a discordant twang of lute strings, and before he’s really stopped to think about it, Geralt is headed back downstairs. Probably best to make sure Jaskier hasn’t gotten himself in trouble after all. 

Much to Geralt’s relief, Jaskier has not gotten himself in trouble. At first glance, he seems fine. He grins at the patrons like he’s impervious to their mistrustful glares. He sings his heart out and it seems like every other performance he’s ever done. Geralt writes his own concerns off as unfounded right up until Jaskier sidles over to the table he’s resigned himself to, stealing the witcher’s mug to take a drink. 

“Well, if that one didn’t get them singing along, I’m going to have to assume it’s a lost cause,” Jaskier comments, a tad breathless from all the running about he’s been doing. “I’m starting to think we’ve landed in the middle of a village full of people who just don’t know how to enjoy things.” 

“That’s the most reasonable conclusion to come to,” Geralt drawls, smirking just a bit at Jaskier. Anything else he might have said dies on his lips as he really looks at the bard.

This fearful undercurrent is all wrong. Jaskier's baseline is happy and full of wonder, not the sourness that greets Geralt now. Even though he's smiling, it's still there. It had been easy to write off as just the general mood of this place, but it’s not only that. It’s the tightness around Jaskier's eyes, the tense set of his shoulders, a dozen little things Geralt is surprised to find he recognizes. 

Jaskier is afraid.

Jaskier has been with him pretty much all day, and Geralt’s mental recap turns up nothing particularly frightening. “What do you know?”

Jaskier’s brows furrow in what looks to be confusion. “About what?”

“You’re nervous.” Geralt watches Jaskier more closely, but there’s nothing else new. The bard’s gaze doesn’t drift to anyone or anything, so there’s nothing to go on, really. “Why?”

Jaskier’s mouth purses in a soundless “oh” and he shrugs sheepishly at Geralt. “We still have no idea what’s stalking this village or whatever it’s doing.” 

Jaskier does look away then, but it’s a broad sweep of the villagers, like any one of them could be a vampire or something. Despite Jaskier’s occasional tendency to be high strung and ridiculous, this is… weird. “A monster being a mystery has never bothered you before.”

“Well, the clues always made _sense_ before.” Jaskier paces restlessly, thumb dragging along the neck of his lute as he does. “Don’t you ever get that awful feeling like something terrible is about to happen?”

Geralt thinks about pointing out how irrational that is, but Jaskier already knows that. Of course he does. The thing is, Jaskier is also at Geralt’s side, looking at the witcher like a lifeline. Geralt draws the line at encouraging Jaskier’s dramatics, but sympathy wins out in the end and he replies with a noncommittal hum. 

\---

It’s a relief when Jaskier finally concedes that there’s nothing to be gained sticking around downstairs. At least, Geralt thinks it is. It’s a belief that lasts long enough for them to get upstairs and into their rented room anyway. 

They’ve shared space like this for so long, this is practically routine. Geralt is already shrugging out of his shirt when he hears Jaskier latch the door. That’s not out of the ordinary. The scraping sound that comes after is though. 

There’s a little table and chairs on that side of the room. Geralt turns around to watch Jaskier drag said chair across the floor. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Jaskier doesn’t even look up, currently very focused on finding the best way to wedge the chair under the door handle. 

Okay. Maybe that’s the wrong question. Heaving a sigh, Geralt amends it. “ _Why_ are you doing that?”

“It’s more secure,” Jaskier replies like it’s Geralt’s question that’s odd and not his behavior. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite ring true. “I’d think you’d be glad I’ve finally developed a sense of self-preservation.” 

The thing is, normally he would be. But nothing about this day has been anything resembling normal. He can still see how stiff Jaskier is, like he’s bracing for a fight even while he finishes shimmying out of his boots and trousers. Not sure what to do with any of it, Geralt grumbles, “Just get in bed already.”

It's a bit worrisome that Jaskier proceeds to do just that without a word of complaint. The bard cranes his head to look back at the chair wedged up against the door, even though it hasn't budged an inch. And then he settles. 

Or at least, that might be a charitable word for it. There's the momentary pretense of putting an inch or two of space between them, but Jaskier doesn't even make an excuse when he shuffles into said space a moment later. At first, Geralt ignores the intrusion. He is a barrier between Jaskier and the door and he means to sleep facing it just in case there’s some merit to Jaskier's strange fit of paranoia. 

He's half asleep when he feels Jaskier curl in a little bit closer, forehead resting against Geralt's shoulder blade.

“Jaskier. What are—” Geralt stops short as he notices a sudden shift. The sour sense of worry that had clung to Jaskier all night dissipates. Geralt is used to being the cause of fear, but never the solution.

 _There's nowhere safer than by your side._ Geralt had thought Jaskier was just being theatrical, but as the bard finally relaxes he's struck by just how deep that trust must run. It's startling how precious that is to Geralt, the way it makes the protest die on his lips. 

If it puts Jaskier at ease, he’ll put up with it. Just for tonight.

[ ](https://imgur.com/SrUyQJb)

\---

Geralt wakes with a sharp inhale, the echo of some nightmare chasing him from slumber. It wasn’t real, whatever it was. Geralt can’t even recall the shape of what haunts him, but he’s strangely rattled. 

When he opens his eyes, the chair is still right there in his line of vision. Geralt searches for any sign of movement before realizing how ridiculous that is. Jaskier’s worry is no more well founded now than it had been last night. 

Normally, they drift apart in the night, but he’s plastered along Geralt’s back, face tucked against the nape of Geralt’s neck. His breath comes in soft, even puffs that just barely ruffle Geralt’s hair. In the end, Jaskier is more grounding than anything else. 

It had been Jaskier seeking out comfort, but with his arm folded around Geralt, his loose fist resting against the witcher’s breastbone, it feels more like an anchor, a steadying force. Geralt knows it’s not intended as affection, not really, but he lets himself be tethered by the idea that he is something to hold onto, just for a minute. It’s a welcome source of comfort while he remembers how to breathe again. 

“G’rlt?” Jaskier mumbles against the back of Geralt’s neck, his voice still slurred and thick with sleep. As verbose as Jaskier is most of the time, he manages to convey his concern in one half-formed word. Jaskier’s hold on Geralt tightens in a sleepy embrace. 

It’s so easy to let Jaskier’s familiar presence lure him back to the present. But it’s no more his to have than it was before Jaskier woke. Reluctantly, Geralt breathes out a sigh and eases out of Jaskier’s grasp. “Everything is fine. Go back to sleep.” 

It’s near enough to the truth. Nothing tangible is wrong. If Geralt’s eyes keep tracking back to that stupid chair as he dresses, it’s probably only because it’s in the way of the door. 

Geralt means to walk it off. The sun is only barely climbing over the horizon, gray light filtering through the windows as he heads downstairs. The tavern is all but empty, but Geralt finds himself giving the room a once over anyway, as if something might lurk in the shadows. It’s not overkill, he doesn’t think, to be cautious of a town that’s made its thoughts about him rather clear. 

“Witcher,” the innkeeper says as Geralt walks by the bar to get out the door. His shoulders stiffen at the sharp edges of the word even before Geralt turns to face the man. The innkeeper hasn’t been particularly pleasant, but just now, glowering at Geralt, he seems nearly hostile. 

Geralt has no desire to strike up a conversation, so he’s sort of relieved when the innkeeper continues without any input from him. “Have you killed it yet?”

“Well, since no one has bothered to be clear on what ‘it’ is, no. I’m working on it.” Stifling the urge to curse about it, Geralt figures if he’s stuck talking to the innkeeper, he might as well leverage the fact that the man probably talks to more villagers than anyone else. “What do you know about it?”

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, sniff it out or something? I always sorta thought monsters were good at finding each other.” The innkeeper sneers at Geralt, and it is really very much too early for this nonsense, but the witcher largely ignores it. “What’s the point of you if you’ve got to resolve this the way a man would?”

If he were wiser, he might bite his tongue, but Geralt arches an eyebrow at the innkeeper. “Were you volunteering? Seems like the way men solve it here is not to do anything at all judging from that noticeboard.”

“What my very dear friend here means is that we have a job to do, and we mean to, you know, do it.” Jaskier’s voice is just a touch too high as he slings an arm around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt can hear the bard’s heart racing, which seems sort of concerning for something as minor as this, but Jaskier flashes the innkeeper a charming smile that speaks nothing of the turmoil lurking underneath. “So, we’ll just get out of your hair now.”

The innkeeper looks between the two of them, jaw clenching briefly, but whatever fight he was considering picking, he lets it go. “Well, get on with it then. It’s bad luck to have a witcher here, scaring off all the decent folk.” 

Despite Jaskier’s efforts to diffuse the situation, Geralt can feel the bard bristle at his side. Before he can say anything, Jaskier gives the innkeeper a toothy smile. “Yes. I’m sure _that’s_ what’s scaring them off right now.”

Before the innkeeper can decide what thinly veiled accusation Jaskier is making, Geralt steers the bard towards the door and safely outside. Geralt considers asking Jaskier what the hell he’d been thinking, but it’s a silly question. Jaskier is incredibly adept at talking Geralt out of trouble and himself into it, so Geralt doesn’t press. He just shrugs out from under Jaskier’s arm and falls into step beside him. “I thought I told you to go back to sleep.” 

“You did,” Jaskier agrees, walking still, but watching Geralt like he’s expecting the witcher to sprout a second head. 

Talkative as Jaskier usually is, he never seems to be forthcoming when Geralt actually wants him to be. “So, why are you here?”

The smile Jaskier gives Geralt is nothing like the one he flashed the innkeeper. It’s a small, crooked thing, punctuated by slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Because you told me to go back to sleep.” 

Geralt is relatively sure this isn’t some sudden confession that Jaskier makes a concerted effort to do the opposite of what he’s told. But knowing what it isn’t doesn’t give Geralt the slightest inkling of what it _is_. With a frustrated sigh, Geralt presses, “Just say what you mean, Jaskier.”

“You drag me out of bed nearly every morning, Geralt. The best I can ever hope for is that sometimes you tolerate me sleeping in until the sun is properly up. So, I can really only assume something is wrong.” There’s a slight sourness to Jaskier’s scent, so faint Geralt almost misses it. It’s not fear exactly, but something adjacent. Not that Jaskier stops talking long enough for Geralt to suss out what that something is. “Talk to me?”

What _is_ wrong? He’s felt wrong-footed all morning. Caution feels reasonable, but now, pressed for the reasons, Geralt comes up empty. Every explanation that springs to mind sounds ridiculous when he stops to think about it, so he doesn’t offer one. “I have work to do.”

“ _We_ have work to do,” Jaskier replies brightly. That scent still clings to him, but Geralt can’t pick out any other sign of distress. 

“I can talk to people, Jaskier,” Geralt grumbles, scowling at the insinuation. “I don’t need help.”

“I know _that_. You’re good at it even, when you let yourself be. But you also don’t like it and I’m here.” It’s hard to say whether it’s better or worse that Jaskier has taken it upon himself to clarify. Despite the lightness of Jaskier’s tone, there’s a strange tension in the set of his shoulders. “Let me make things easier.”

There’s a joke right there for the taking about how often Jaskier causes more trouble than he alleviates, but it dies on Geralt’s lips. He tells himself that things are strange, that leaving Jaskier behind will just be one more thing to worry over. He tells himself it’s concern for Jaskier and not the way an uncomfortable knot in his chest begins to unravel at the promise of having someone in his corner. It cannot be that because as often as Geralt is annoyed, exasperated, even actively angry at humans, he’s never been afraid of them. Hillcrest would be a ridiculous place to start. “Fine.”

\---

“Well, that’s ominous,” Jaskier mutters as they approach the first little house on the edge of town. 

“What?” Geralt squints as he tries to follow what Jaskier is looking at, but it’s not terribly illuminating. There’s a path up to a house. The old wooden boards that make up its sides are topped with a thatched roof, just like pretty much every house in every village north of Nazair. Small pink flowers line the base of the building all the way around from what Geralt can see. They’re bright pops of color against an otherwise nondescript background, and honestly, by small village standards, the place is practically cheerful. He scents the air, but the most dangerous thing he picks up is horses in a nearby barn. Jaskier is looking at the place like he’s spotted a barghest lurking in the shadows though. It leaves Geralt unsettled, wondering if he’s missed something terrible. “What’s ominous?” 

“You know. The—” Jasker gestures vaguely to the entirety of the house. 

“The house?” Geralt prompts, swallowing the urge to say anything sharper. Jaskier picks strange things to get in a tizzy over sometimes, but Geralt can’t quite shake the feeling that that’s not what this is. 

“Thank you, Geralt. Very helpful. It isn’t the house. Well, it kind of is. It’s the, the—” Jaskier makes a frustrated sound, but the look he gives Geralt is beseeching rather than annoyed. It’s an expression that promises to linger uncomfortably in Geralt’s thoughts. “Maybe it’s the curtains.”

Geralt wants to understand, but Jaskier isn’t making it easy. The curtains are no more than ratty yellow strips of cloth drawn over the windows. They’re utterly unremarkable. “People close curtains to keep the sun out. That’s the point.” 

“Okay. Maybe not the curtains. I… it’s fine. I’m fine.” Jaskier crosses his arms, waiting for… something, but Geralt doesn’t really know what to do with any of it. He believes that something is off. Well, no. He believes that Jaskier feels that something is off enough to latch onto. To be afraid of, if Jaskier’s posture is anything to judge by. 

Before he can ask Jaskier what the bard expects him to do with this information, there’s a slight blur of motion out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he puts an arm out to shield Jaskier from whatever is there, but when Geralt turns to look, there’s only the curtain, waving in the aftermath of being dropped back into place. It’s a reminder that this town just gets weirder and weirder, and standing out in the road isn’t going to give them any answers. It could be that Jaskier is onto something, which is somehow far worse than being able to convince himself that the bard is spooked over nothing. “You don’t have to come with if you’d feel better—”

“I’m coming.” Jaskier cuts Geralt off before he can finish. Though it looks like the very last thing the bard wants to be doing, he follows Geralt. And if Geralt happens to subtly put himself between Jaskier and whatever’s behind that door, neither of them comment on it. 

As it turns out, ‘whatever’s behind that door’ is a moot point. He can hear the shuffle of someone retreating further into the house, but no one answers. No amount of rattling off what he’s here for helps, and while Geralt knows he could probably force his way in, it’s a monumentally terrible idea. When that’s the only option left, Geralt cuts his losses and leaves. There are other houses out this way, after all. 

They’re just leaving when Geralt hears movement in the barn beside the house. He rushes to the open door before whoever it is can barricade themselves away. 

It’s not actually that much better than being shut out. Instead of a closed door, Geralt finds a woman brandishing a pitchfork at him, her eyes round as saucers in the light shining from outside. “Get back. The both of you.”

Geralt swallows down the urge to sigh. It is apparently asking far too much for any part of this mystery to not be a source of frustration. He can’t help the way his gaze keeps drawing back to the pitchfork pointed at him. It’s fine. She’s just scared. 

It doesn’t feel fine.

“Look. We saw all the notices.” Geralt makes a conscious effort not to spook her further, speaking in the hushed, gentle way he usually reserves for Roach and the occasional small child. “We’re trying to help.”

“But we need more information,” Jaskier chimes in. He reeks of fear in a way Geralt can’t shrug off anymore, and he’s all but clinging to the witcher. Still, the smile he pulls into place is warm, like his heart isn’t threatening to beat right out of his chest. “That’s all we’re here for.”

The woman freezes for a moment longer. Inch by inch she finally lowers the pitchfork, her expression shifting from overtly frighted to something more just… wary. “What do you want to know?”

The way Jaskier presses close to Geralt is surprisingly subtle. The witcher isn’t sure he’d even notice if he weren’t the one it was happening to. It seems to bolster him enough that the gentle cadence of Jaskier’s voice never falters. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

\---

A runaway husband. Two sisters, each convinced the other is possessed and plotting their demise. Creaking floorboards and nameless shadows in the trees. They all seem more like children’s nightmares than the work of a monster. By the time they reach the last house on the road, Geralt is one paranoid suspicion away from tearing his own hair out. He’s really not sure if it’s a curse or a blessing when a woman answers the door and does not immediately turn them away. 

“There’s something in the woods, witcher,” she says once the door is safely closed again. She’s the only one who has actually invited them inside. Though she’s wringing her hands even after they sit down, so perhaps it’s just good manners overruling whatever’s wrong with this place. 

He’s heard that a dozen times today. It’s always followed by some useless anecdote that’s far more likely to be an overactive imagination than a monster. Geralt forces himself not to scowl, to ask like he hasn’t asked this useless question over and over again. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s my husband. Eugene. He took the boys hunting about a week ago maybe, in the forest just west of here, and it’s like… it’s like he came home, but not all of him came back.” The woman twists her hands fretfully in her threadbare apron. “Said they had to kill some kind of monster.”

 _Finally_. Geralt listens for any clue about what kind, but she stops short, so the witcher presses. “What did it look like?”

“He won’t say. He’s hardly said a word to me since that day. I’d think he was seeing things, but the boys saw it too. Or at least they saw what it made him into. It changed him, had him snarling just like the monster. He came home looking like he was just itching to start a fight. With _anyone_.” All this time, the woman has kept her distance. She all but cowers against the little stove top. “You have to understand. It wasn’t _him_ in there. My husband would sooner claw his own eyes out than hurt someone. He’s better, a bit, but now he’s just quiet.” 

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Jaskier promises. Out of the corner of his eye Geralt catches the way Jaskier’s thumb and forefinger rub together in a familiar nervous tic. “Whatever’s out there, we’ll find it.” 

\---

“Do you think it’s a monster?” Jaskier matches Geralt’s pace. His right hand flits with nervous energy, resting on Geralt’s arm only to jerk away like he’s been burned. 

“I need to go see what she’s talking about.” He looks out towards the woods. It’s already nearly dark. Much as Geralt hates to admit it, it’ll be easier to find clues by daylight. Reluctantly, he steers them towards the inn. With any luck, by this time tomorrow, Hillcrest will be far behind them. 

“What kind of monster could even do that?” Aside from the questions, Jaskier is strangely subdued. His hand lands at Geralt’s elbow again, squeezing briefly before it’s gone.

“Hard to say.” Geralt can think of plenty of creatures that could be responsible for each individual story they’ve been told, but nothing that makes it all add up. 

Jaskier has done a good job putting up a cheerful facade every time someone needed reassurance, but his expression now is as drawn as it’s been all the other in-between times. There’s that nervous fidgeting again, Jaskier rubbing the pads of his fingers together. “Do you think this place is cursed?”

“I don’t _know_ , Jaskier.” Geralt is immediately sorry for the way it comes out, causing Jaskier to shrink away from him. Jaskier looks more chastised than afraid, for which Geralt is terribly grateful. He’s not sure he could stomach the bard being afraid of him along with… everything else. 

_A curse._ The possibility sticks with Geralt all night. It would explain why Jaskier is impacted, and he _is_ , plain as day. It worsens as time passes, and by the time they get back to the inn, he looks as haunted as the people they talked to. 

Geralt shoves down the urge to snarl, at himself more than anything. Maybe Geralt never asked for a traveling companion, but Jaskier stays. He always _stays_. He softens the world into a more bearable shape around the witcher. He makes people see things, believe things that even Geralt cannot. 

And he trusts Geralt to protect him. One glance at Jaskier’s downcast eyes and uncharacteristic frown are all the evidence Geralt needs to recognize how badly he’s failed. Not that Jaskier is the most reasonable at the best of times, but if today has shown Geralt anything, there is no reasoning with whatever has consumed this place. If he had hope of getting through to the bard, he certainly doesn’t now. 

Tomorrow, Geralt tells himself. If he can’t figure this out by tomorrow, they will go, contracts be damned. Much as the witcher would like to help, there’s no chance Jaskier will allow Geralt to send him away, and Geralt refuses to keep letting Jaskier pay so heavily for his devotion. He _can’t_.

The evening only offers further encouragement to leave Hillcrest. Jaskier doesn’t grab his lute when they reach the inn. He doesn’t even ask the innkeeper. In a strange turn of events, Jaskier tucks himself away in the furthest corner. It’s a good vantage point to keep an eye on the handful of villagers, careful in a way that is wildly unlike the bard.

Dinner is as off-kilter as everything else. Geralt’s attention is split between the villagers glancing furtively in his direction and Jaskier, leaning quietly against him. He wants to tell the rest of the tavern patrons to fuck off already. He wants to shake the awful sourness of Jaskier’s fear. Mostly, he just wants to get out of here. 

“If you’d rather—” Geralt pauses, watching Jaskier push the same chunk of potato back and forth across his plate. He doesn’t know how he was going to end that sentence. 

All at once he remembers the night before, what it had taken to ease Jaskier’s troubled mind. He doesn’t invite it, not in so many words, but the next time Jaskier leans into the meat of his shoulder, he makes a subtle effort to urge the bard upright. “You’re tired.” 

“It’s fine. I’m… fine. I’m fine,” Jaskier protests, looking anything but. He doesn’t meet Geralt’s eyes for long, his head abruptly whipping to the side to watch something the villagers are doing. 

Geralt shakes his head minutely. Okay, so that’s how it’s going to be. Thinking for a moment, ignoring the tension he fears he might never shake, Geralt counters, “Well, _I’m_ tired.”

It’s not precisely a lie, which is good. Jaskier is exceptionally good at reading people and Geralt is not an exceptionally good liar. No, it’s just truth with motive, and it gets exactly the result he’d hoped for. Jaskier lets himself be herded upstairs with very little protest. 

Jaskier gets precisely one boot off before he turns back, apparently deciding it’s quite urgent to make sure the door is locked. _Is it?_ Geralt finds himself suddenly wondering, but Jaskier doesn’t touch the lock, so he supposes it must be. 

The shelter of their room provides none of the relief from Jaskier’s fidgeting as it had the night before. And if Geralt is being honest, that’s the truly frightening part of all this. Jaskier has the self-preservation instincts of a particularly friendly puppy. If he’s this worked up…

“Maybe we ought to make camp outside of town,” Geralt suggests. He’s not exactly keen on doing so, but if this place is truly cursed, maybe he can get Jaskier outside the area of effect. 

“No!” Jaskier’s voice comes out strangled, his eyes like dinner plates when he stares at Geralt. “No. No no that’s a terrible idea. We don’t know what’s out there, and I, for one, do not want to be the next victim.”

There’s not much point in drawing attention to the fact that it’s already too late, Jaskier is in this thing’s thrall. Geralt’s chest aches with it, enough that he doesn’t complain about Jaskier’s pacing, only tracking the movement from their bed. He’d ease it if he could, but witchers are not made to soothe any more than Jaskier was made to kill monsters. 

It’s nothing short of a miracle that Jaskier eventually crawls into bed. Maybe he’s worn himself out, or maybe it’s finally sunk in that the view out the window isn’t going to be any different this time than it was the last twelve. Whatever the reason, Jaskier finally sheds the other boot along with most of his clothes, crawling into bed to settle at Geralt’s back once more. 

Geralt waits, but the solace proximity seemed to bring Jaskier the night before doesn’t come. The beating of Jaskier’s heart is steady, almost normal, but he feels as tense as a cornered animal in the places where they touch. Last time Jaskier pressed his head against Geralt’s spine in a simple search for comfort. There’s a different quality to it now, harder, more urgent as Jaskier tries to hide from some unnameable thing. 

As much as Geralt dislikes having the door at his back, he dislikes Jaskier’s current condition more. Neither of them will get any sleep this way. That’s the only reason Geralt does anything about it, of course. They’ll never get out of here if he’s too tired to think. 

“That’s not comfortable,” Geralt grumbles, mostly because there’s no telling what conclusion Jaskier will jump to if he doesn’t give some kind of explanation. 

“Sorry. I’ll just, ah…” Jaskier has put as much space between them as is physically possible by the time Geralt rolls onto his back. 

Whatever excuse Geralt had settled on never makes it off his lips. He reaches out automatically, curling an arm around Jaskier’s back and dragging the bard close. Jaskier yelps in surprise, lying stiffly where Geralt puts him. 

“Sleep, Jaskier.” Much to Geralt’s surprise, that’s enough of an admonition to make Jaskier cooperate. The bard relaxes, eventually tucking his head under Geralt’s chin. He curls in against Geralt and finally something gives. 

Once more, Geralt is struck by how much it matters to him, how deep Jaskier’s trust runs. It shouldn’t be important beyond their ability to get some sleep. Only, Jaskier tucks himself against Geralt’s side like the embrace is a shield that will keep out whatever evil is haunting him. 

Geralt turns his head, beginning to doze as he watches the light under the door for any sign of trouble. If he happens to memorize the warmth of Jaskier’s cheek against his bare skin or the pressure of the bard’s loosely curled fingers against the center of his chest, that’s no one’s business but his own. 

\---

Geralt has always sort of taken it for granted that witchers don’t die in their beds. He’s never really considered that that might actually be the preferable outcome. He wakes to the door crashing open, a handful of villagers barging in. Before Geralt can even sit up, they’re upon him. 

Maybe it’s that their own panic makes the villagers faster. Maybe allowing himself to sleep has made him sluggish. Probably it has more to do with the horrifying realization that the curse has him too. 

They’re shouting, a cacophony of accusations: He asks too many questions. He’s stayed too long. Perhaps he’s been the monster all along. Geralt only catches snatches of it, the rest is just noise. 

They need to get out of here, but Geralt’s limbs refuse to cooperate. His chest feels like it’s constricting around his heart and lungs. The witcher’s breaths come, quick and shallow. Terror is such a distant memory that what floods his senses feels only barely familiar. 

Only seconds pass, probably, but it feels like a lifetime before he can spur himself into action. He has to get out of here, has to get _Jaskier_ out of here, but by the time Geralt can manage any kind of momentum there are hands pinning him down, yanking viciously at his hair. Geralt struggles, but it’s already too late. Cool metal, the sharp edge of a sword, begins to glide across his throat. 

[](https://imgur.com/3uhcEau)

“Stop it!” Geralt only catches a glimpse of Jaskier, too busy trying to keep his own head. He feels Jaskier’s fingers close around the assailant’s wrist though, giving him the leverage he needs to wrap his own hand around the blade and push it away from anything vital. 

While Geralt would never describe Jaskier as timid, the bard tends to be largely non-confrontational. With the possible exception of some perceived slight against Geralt, Jaskier will nearly almost always excuse himself with great haste before he sticks around for a fight. He’s been known to hide behind Geralt from monsters and angry spouses alike, so the last thing the witcher expects is for Jaskier, half out of his mind with fear, to stick around. As it turns out, he’s entirely underestimated Jaskier. 

“How dare you? We stayed to help and this is the thanks we get?” Jaskier shouts at the villagers from where he’s planted himself behind the bed. It’s hard to say whether Jaskier’s trembling is a product of fear or fury, but it doesn’t make much difference. Their unwelcome guests are cowed long enough that Geralt manages to wrench out of their grasp. With a growl, Geralt smacks the sword out of its owner’s hand. In one smooth motion, he grabs the weapon’s pommel with his off hand. 

It would be amusing any other time, watching Jaskier half dressed and disheveled with sleep, ranting at a handful of alarmed looking humans. But Geralt’s heartbeat hammers away, far too fast for a witcher, and Jaskier looks one misstep away from a breakdown, clearly still frightened. Not frightened in general, Geralt realizes as Jaskier presses as close as he can while still standing. Frightened for _him_.

As far as Geralt can tell, the attack was more spur-of-the-moment than anything premeditated. The minute he gets up the villagers cower, and all it takes is his brandishing the confiscated sword in their general direction to make them run. Even in their right minds, most average humans would run from a fair fight with a witcher. Consumed by fear, that’s all the more true. Whatever fit of valor drove them to this, it has sputtered out, taking the villagers along with it. 

The reasonable thing would be to recognize that that’s the end of it, but in a quiet indictment of his mental state, Geralt can’t help the way he fixates on the doorway, waiting for any sign that they’ll return. 

“You’re bleeding.” Jaskier’s voice draws Geralt’s attention finally. He’s breathing like he’s just run for miles, but he bustles about the room as if he isn’t even more rattled than Geralt, returning with bandages. A watery sort of smile tugs at his lips in the near dark. “Let me?”

“I’m fine,” Geralt protests, ignoring the way his palm throbs where the blade cut into it. But Jaskier is as insistent as ever. If not for Geralt’s keen senses, he might not even notice the slight tremor when Jaskier takes his hand. “I’m _fine_.”

“You almost weren’t. It was close.” Jaskier winds the bandaging around Geralt’s hand with practiced ease, chewing fretfully at his lip all the while. With so much of their trouble stemming from it, there’s no way he missed Geralt seizing up in the moment. But Jaskier doesn’t ask and Geralt doesn’t volunteer. 

The wound at Geralt’s neck is surprisingly minor, but that doesn’t stop Jaskier from tilting the witcher’s jaw to the side with gentle fingers to clean away the blood beaded there. “Maybe we just… need to go.” 

“We need to end this.” Geralt refuses to be run off by his own unruly emotions. He knows what’s happening. Maybe, if he’s very lucky, it’ll be enough to reason his way through whatever it takes to break this curse or… whatever it is. 

“Right… Okay.” Jaskier frowns deeply, but surprisingly doesn’t argue. He looks at the bed, visibly shuddering at the blood smeared on the sheets. “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I think we might be better off taking our chances in the woods after all.” 

\---

To say witchers are without emotion would be very much a lie, but Geralt is used to having _some_ agency over them. Sort of. The ones most detrimental to a witcher, the ones like fear, are at least blunted enough that they can be wrangled. Even with the immediate threat gone, Geralt can’t quite shake the way it lingers this time. Every shadow, every sound in the trees, even the crunch of leaves under their feet make the hair at the nape of Geralt’s neck stand on end. 

He’s not sure if it’s more for Jaskier’s sake or his own that he doesn’t protest when the bard’s hand finds his. Under normal circumstances, he thinks the tenderness with which Jaskier threads their fingers between each other would be a particular sort of torture. Right now it’s just comforting, a subtle reminder that neither of them are an island. 

They don’t sleep. Not meaningfully at any rate. Geralt sits against the trunk of a tree, intending to keep watch, only for Jaskier to make himself at home at the witcher’s side. Jaskier leans awkwardly until Geralt gives in and wraps an arm around the bard’s shoulders, the both of them staring out into the dark. 

\---

Well, perhaps they sleep a little. Sunlight is just beginning to filter through the trees when Geralt opens his eyes. He doesn’t need to look for Jaskier, can feel the bard all but glued to his side. 

It’s a testament to the night it’s been, the near violence with which Jaskier jolts upright when Geralt shifts a little to get up. “Wha—”

“It’s just me.” Geralt tries to shake off the lingering sense of worry, but he’s no more equipped to do so this morning than he had been last night. That as much as anything makes him eager to get this over with. “Let’s go.”

“Go? Oh, you mean to find the… whatever.” Jaskier scrubs one hand over his face, and gestures vaguely with the other. “You sure you don’t want to just get out of here and be done with it?”

That’s the thing. He _does_ want to leave, but the feeling is all wrong. Sure, he’s sometimes reluctant to help when humans are particularly troublesome, but that’s irritation speaking. Irritation is normal, manageable even. This is still a fear he can’t shake, rattling about in some dark corner of his mind. Unsure how to explain, or if he even wants to, Geralt pushes himself to stand. “Come on.” 

They’re at least in the right part of the forest this time if what little information they got yesterday is accurate. It’s been too long since the hunt to try to pick up Eugene’s scent, so Geralt ignores signs of humans entirely. Instead, he searches for what doesn’t belong. If it’s a curse, it could be that the felled monster was the creation of some resident mage. 

For every time Geralt has wished Jaskier would shut up for five minutes during their travels, he hates the silence now. They spend most of the morning combing the woods with hardly a word said between them. It’s not what Geralt would call a pleasant three hours. 

“Geralt.” Very suddenly, Jaskier grabs Geralt’s elbow, bodily steering him in a different direction. There’s a body. At least he thinks it is. It’s hard to tell from this distance, even for Geralt. Whatever it is is quite large though. Probably the monster. 

Definitely the monster. They reach what’s left of Eugene’s quarry. Her head is lolled unnaturally to one side, at an angle that doesn’t match the rest of her at all. 

“What is it?” Jaskier keeps his distance, as if even in death the creature might snap at him. Her long, wolfish muzzle is half buried in dead leaves and underbrush, and her grey eyes have long since clouded over. What remains of her is shaped rather similarly to a dog, though much, much larger. The brown and grey stripes of her short, rough fur should have provided enough camouflage to hide, but it clearly wasn’t enough. 

“A kaparunina. They’re harmless, not even monsters really.” Geralt is used to being subjected to human awfulness, but it’s moments like these that truly wound him. “They don’t even live here. She must have been lost.” 

“She?” Jaskier must see something in Geralt’s expression because he sidles over, palm settling against the witcher’s elbow even though it brings him closer to the monster. “How do you know?” 

“The pouch. She was probably trying to protect her baby.” Geralt gestures to the kaparunina’s belly where a subtle break in the fur gives it away. “That would explain that woman’s husband being so angry.”

“I understood all of those words individually.” Jaskier’s expression is screwed up in confusion, but at least he doesn’t look afraid. It’s very much an improvement. 

“Kaparuninas are telempathic, but it’s not inherently predatory. It’s a way they communicate with their pack. When they’re all together, they sort of cancel each other out as far as humans are concerned. Or else they just have some control over it. No one really knows. But if it’s feeling something strongly, it could project that on anyone around it.” Geralt doesn’t know where the baby is, but he does know it’s not here. Determined to find it before a villager stumbles across the creature, he turns back towards Hillcrest. “Like anger.”

“Or fear.” Jaskier walks beside Geralt, looking back at the monster one last time. His voice is soft, full of sympathy despite everything they’ve been through. “If I was lost and all alone with the creatures that killed my only family, I’d be pretty scared.” 

As they walk, Geralt maps out the town in his head. The creature has to be in a central sort of place to have this kind of impact. The inn isn’t quite right. Most of the houses are too far off center. There’s a well towards the center of town, and though he hasn’t heard anything, it’s all he has to go on. 

“What are you going to do with it?” It says something, Geralt knows, that Jaskier is asking. He understands Geralt perhaps better than anyone. 

“Take it home.” Geralt glances over and spies a warm smile tugging at the corners of Jaskier’s mouth despite the distress he assumes is creeping in. It must be if Geralt can feel it so clearly. 

The bard hums in agreement, like he was just waiting for confirmation. Once, Geralt would have assumed this was where he was laying the foundation for a song, but he knows better these days. Jaskier has somewhat of a penchant for picking up strays the rest of humanity has written off, after all. Jaskier’s heartbeat has picked up, but he doesn’t utter a word of protest. “Great. Let’s go rescue a kapa… kapawhatever.”

“Kaparunina,” Geralt replies mildly as the well comes into view. There are people out and about, and he half expects a fight, but even one he remembers from the night before only shies away. It gets his hackles up, makes him want to lash out, but there’s a baby to save and that helps Geralt to focus.

They reach the well, and immediately Geralt peers over the edge. Down, down, down into the shadows to the water below. He’s met with only silence. 

“Fuck.” Geralt curses at no one in particular, looking up to see Jaskier staring ineffectively down into the well. 

Jaskier makes a soft, vaguely sympathetic sound. This close, even being outside isn’t enough to hide the distress that clings to him. “Okay, so it’s somewhere else. Where would a baby one of these hide?”

“I don’t know.” Geralt eyes their surroundings, sizing up every building, every crevice in the vicinity. Even baby kaparuninas are sizable. They’re not the kind of thing that could take up residence in a house unnoticed. 

In the end, it’s Jaskier who points him in the right direction. He’s clever sometimes, when he wants to be. “So, you know there were all those notices. Not a one mentioned any kind of stripey dog monster thing. And the way we’re all feeling, it’s like it’s never stopped being scared.” 

Geralt narrows his eyes, listening to Jaskier and trying to puzzle out the meaning. “What are you getting at?” 

“Well, I’m just looking at the storm cellar the alderman has chained shut over there.” Jaskier motions to a set of doors set in the dirt. Sure enough, they’re chained shut. “Do you think maybe it got stuck?”

It’s a distinct possibility. Geralt doesn’t really want to get his own hopes up on the matter, so he’s noncommittal. “I think we’re going to find out.” 

It could be over in an instant, except that the alderman comes out just as Geralt is prying the chain off the handles. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

“Fixing your monster problem,” Geralt retorts, not even bothering to look up. He hears the beginnings of some urgent conversation between Jaskier and the alderman, but the minute he pries the chain free and it loudly clanks against the handles, he loses the thread. He loses everything. 

Except the fear. Geralt suddenly wants nothing more than to scramble away, to slink off into the shadows. The daylight offers no comfort here. It’s just a horrifying kind of exposure as his mind conjures up the night before all over again. The witcher can scarcely breathe. 

Steeling himself, Geralt wrenches open one of the doors. He’s sucking in heavy, panicked breaths, but underneath all that there’s something else. Two eyes peer out at him from a corner of the cellar, and though every fiber of Geralt’s being is screeching at him to run, he descends the stairs instead. 

“I know you’re scared.” Geralt sits at the bottom of the steps, trying to hide his own ragged breathing so as not to frighten the little creature further. As softly as he can, he speaks to it. “It’s going to be alright now.” 

He doesn’t know how long he’s down there. The feeling, especially this close to the creature, is crushing. It’s all-consuming, and by the time the kaparunina begins to edge out from behind the shelf it was wedged against, Geralt feels inches from passing out. He forces a smile though, stretching out a hand. 

The creature takes one wobbly step and then another, warily coming to investigate the witcher. He doesn’t move a muscle as it snuffles the bandages on his hand. Only when it sits in arm’s reach does Geralt make a move. It’s probably starving, and he’s not sure how much longer he can fight against the emotions it’s pushing on him, so Geralt does the only thing he can think to. 

Forming the sign for Axii, Geralt soothes the creature into a more complacent state. The baby relaxes as he scoops it into his arms, and for what feels like the first time in days, Geralt can breathe.

“You did it,” Jaskier exclaims even before Geralt has entirely made it out of the basement. He smiles, unburdened by fear, and it might be the loveliest thing Geralt has ever seen. “I knew you would.” 

“You’re going to kill it.” The alderman cuts in before Geralt can reply to Jaskier. The audacity of it is appalling. It’s not even a question. 

“They’re harmless.” Geralt glowers at the alderman, just the tiniest bit sorry that the man isn’t rattled enough to shrink away from him anymore. 

“Harmless? You of all people should know it isn’t.” The alderman’s gaze flicks to the line on Geralt’s throat that hasn’t quite healed. “After what was done to you.” 

“By humans,” Geralt points out, refusing to be manipulated. “You don’t get to kill things just because you’re scared of them.”

For a moment, the alderman looks like he might argue. He begins to open his mouth, but Geralt cuts him off. 

“Last night would have ended very differently if I followed your reasoning.” It’s not a confession he’d like to be making, but it gets the point across. 

The alderman huffs irritably, but relents. “Have it your way, witcher. Just get it out of here.”

Given the way the man stalks off, Geralt is surprised when the alderman returns, throwing a bag of coin in his direction. It’s probably not nearly what the job is worth, but Geralt can’t really bring himself to care at the moment. He doesn’t even grumble when the alderman pauses on his way into his house once more. “Get yourself out of here too.” 

“Don’t have to tell us twice,” Jaskier mutters. His hand has settled at the small of Geralt’s back, and the witcher realizes he doesn’t even know how long it’s been there. Theirs is a comfortable sort of companionship, and for the briefest second, Geralt lets himself relax into the touch. 

“Come on,” Geralt murmurs, scritching behind the kaparunina’s ear as it starts to stir. “Let’s get you home.”

\---

“You weren’t joking about them being lost,” Jaskier muses. They’re weeks from Hillcrest, and it’s nothing short of a miracle that Geralt hasn’t had to Axii the creature again. It has been perfectly happy to let Geralt or Jaskier carry it, curling up between their bedrolls in the evenings. Geralt is almost sorry to lose its companionship. 

But the Path is no place for something small and fragile. He and Jaskier could never be the family it needs. So, Geralt and Jaskier hike out into the middle of nowhere to where the witcher finally finds a pack of the creatures. 

It’s a bit of an ordeal, watching from the shadows as the baby trundles back to its own kind. He worries for a moment that he’s miscalculated, but kaparuninas are peaceful creatures, and they welcome their new arrival like it’s always belonged there. 

They watch anyway, Jaskier leaning against Geralt until the kaparuninas disappear into the trees. The last one is out of sight when Jaskier says. “You could have killed it.”

“What?” Geralt immediately bristles. He’d thought Jaskier understood. When he jerks away, the bard’s hands raise in surrender. 

“I didn’t mean you _should_. It’s a compliment. What I’m saying is that there was an expected outcome. It would have been completely understandable. I mean, I think I might have died if I had to sit next to it while it was like that.” Jaskier rambles the way he so often does when he’s nervous. “But you didn’t. When all the cards were stacked against you, you… You chose to be kind.” 

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know what to do with the strangely soft look Jaskier is giving him. “It didn’t deserve to die.” 

“No,” Jaskier agrees, bumping against Geralt’s shoulder and heading back towards the road. “It didn’t.” 

An expected outcome. Something about that sticks with Geralt. He can’t help but think of that last night. They were surrounded. Jaskier was shaking like a leaf. And yet he stayed. 

“You were terrified.” It’s only once Geralt says it that he realizes maybe that’s not what he meant to lead with.

Sure enough, Jaskier frowns at him. “So? What of it? You were too.”

“I was.” It’s not really a confession. They both knew that already. It feels vulnerable to say out loud anyway. “But that’s not my point.”

“Okay?” Jaskier stops among the trees. There’s no hurry, not really, and there’s something to be said for the hush of the woods around them. 

“You were afraid of things you’re never afraid of.” He’s not sure what he’s asking really, so Geralt doesn’t ask a question. He just presses quietly onward. “But not of me.”

“Of course not of you.” Jaskier shakes his head, a lazy smile curling on his lips. “I may have been a bit out of my mind, but I _meant_ what I said.”

They’re on a precipice. Geralt has faced down monsters of all sorts without batting an eye, but this gets dragged from him in scarcely more than a whisper. “What did you mean?” The wound has been gone for a week now, but Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand, fingertips brushing where the injury had been. “There’s no place safer than at your side.” 

Unbidden, Geralt remembers the press of Jaskier’s forehead between his shoulders. The feel of his hair brushing under Geralt’s chin. The weight of Jaskier wearily leaning into him under the tree. Even now, Jaskier hasn’t let go. “When everything else went sideways, you were the one thing, the _only_ thing that still made sense.”

 _Oh_.

Geralt cautiously lifts a hand. When Jaskier doesn’t withdraw, he lets it brush delicately against the bard’s cheek. The inches between them are so few. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just close them. 

“Safest,” Jaskier murmurs, doing the job for him. It’s a soft thing, a careful brush of Jaskier’s lips against Geralt’s. It’s a prelude, something gentle before some pent up urgency can catch up with them. Jaskier’s lips turn up in a smile that should feel like an interruption. It only feels like Jaskier. “Safest, and maybe some other things.”

“Other things?” Geralt huffs out a laugh in spite of himself, though it sputters out on a pleased sigh when Jaskier’s fingers deftly comb through his hair. “What other things?”

“Well, now that we’re no longer foster parents…” Jaskier leans in once more, teeth dragging playfully along Geralt’s bottom lip. “How about I just show you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi! You can find me [on Tumblr](https://drowningbydegrees.tumblr.com/) or [ this one](https://drowningbydegrees-fanworks.tumblr.com/) if you're only interested in fanworks.  
> Sometimes, I also exist on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/DrownByDegrees)  
> 


End file.
